Witchklok
by Amp
Summary: This story will deal with ideas my cohort Indigo X and I have come up with concerning supernatural aspects of the band and of Charles' background.
1. Prologue

Note from the author: This was made more for Indigo_X than anyone. She likes the characters involved and has a particular fondness for Angela. It never fails to happen - I make a character for any given game or story as prickly and unlikable as possible, and they're always the one people gravitate toward. Angela originally began as a Hellboy/BPRD non-player character in a game I was running to serve as a consultant and sometimes field agent. Since then she's cropped up in other games either as a PC of my own or as a mouth piece to inform my players and also in a few pieces of fiction I've dabbled in as a freelance paranormal investigator, which is what she is here.

So, yea, here is the Metalocalypse fan fic.

Enjoy, everyone, and especially Indy - who loves ya?

Standard Disclaimer Ahoy:

Metalocalypse and it's characters don't belong to me - they have sprung Athena-like from the noggins of Tommy Blacha & Brendon Small. Angela & Lyle are mine.

**Witchklok**

**by A.M.P.**

Prologue

_In which we are introduced to Angela Ender; a paranormal investigator who receives an offer of employment_

In the end, he probably deserved it.

Monday came as Monday did - without excuse or invitation and entirely too early. Joshua's hand made a blind, amoeba-like grope in the direction of his alarm clock and, failing to find its target, seemed to gain focus and settled for yanking the cord out of the wall. Sitting up sluggishly, he noted an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach and the distinct taste of bile lingering in the back of his throat. Sparing a glance around the room, he cast about for any evidence of what might be the cause (another weekend offered up to his patron saint, Jack Daniels, perhaps?) and, finding none, got grudgingly to his feet.

Joshua's bathroom was the sort of place that cryptozoologists might venture in search of mythic and long-lost beasts of lore. With a bit of luck, they might even find one, considering the multitude of exotic flora and fauna allowed to flourish there free of the tyranny of Lysol or Windex. He observed his haggard countenance momentarily in the mirror before deciding that he'd, perhaps. be better off having not done so. So began the usual ritual - wash, shave, brush, comb and generally try to make himself presentable according to the demands of the outside world.

His thoughts floated as he went about his business, bobbing amid the early morning flotsam and jetsam of dawning awareness. The world of retail employment was calling and he did his best to project himself beyond it - thinking instead of the night to come. Video games, maybe, or perhaps dinner out with some friends.

Denny's - it's late, you're stoned, nothing else is open.

Food seemed a distant desire at the moment, though. Indeed, he felt, if anything, painfully full. A bit of fresh air, however, would certainly do him some good. Checking his watch he saw he'd have about an hour of free time before having to hoof it. Reprimands and other unkind words had been slung about lately concerning his attendance and punctuality, so he wanted to turn over a new leaf as far as his tardiness was concerned. Converse donned, he headed through the door and into the derelict hallway of his less-than-posh apartment complex, opting to take the back door out and thereby avoid his nagging land lord.

A step outside into the initially glaring sunlight proved to be just what the doctor ordered as the young man began to feel his stomach right itself almost immediately. Tinged even as it was with the atmospheric pollutants typical yet unique to the urban sprawl, stale apartment air it was not and thereby preferable.

He enjoyed it for a total of about ten seconds. That he even turned to look over his shoulder and see the one-eyed woman in mid-swing with her blackjack was a miracle. He had never been and never would be the most observant of men. Her own surprise, if indeed she felt any, was expressed only in a casual, "Hi" before Joshua's world went black.

* * *

It was the smell that woke him.

An urban creature, the dank, earthy scent that pulled him unwillingly into the world was alien, yet on some level comforting. His head radiated pain down through his trunk and into his limbs as sensation prickled back along his skin.

He would have preferred that it hadn't.

His first instinct was to cradle his head - useless as it may have been, it was an automatic reaction. He found, however, that his hand was fixed in place, quite securely, with a length of chain nailed fast to a tree. In fact, as his head began to clear and his vision trickled back in again from the edges, he discovered that his back and the rest of his limbs were all lashed against damp, grimy bark. Skin bare and exposed he saw, too, that he was standing in a sizable aluminum trough.

Something unintelligible passed through his lips, a vague expression of confusion and dawning panic.

The one-eyed woman, however, was the picture of calm. She was sitting on a large rock about two yards away from Joshua, and she was working with something in her hands. Her motions were efficient, but unhurried, nothing wasted. Her hair was either black or very dark brown and fell down to her waist. She had long, angular facial features and her single eye was a tawny hazel, the other covered by a black eye patch.

"Wha...what are...who are you?" The words dribbled out of his mouth like alphabetic spittle and the woman gave no sign of recognition. Shaking his head and regretting it a moment later when it rewarded him with little else but a grander echo of his headache, Joshua did his best to pull himself together. "What are you doing?" His growing alarm was, for the moment, doing wonders for his coherency. There was something else, though, nagging at him under the mental fog. Something important.

The woman tilted her face up, but not at him. Instead, she appeared to be giving the object she'd been assembling a once-over. A revolver, she swung out the cylinder and removed a box of ammunition from her pocket.

"Oh, God...Oh, God, please don't kill me! Why are you doing this?" Joshua became acutely aware of the aluminum trough beneath his feet and a surge of adrenaline took him. Forgetting his cold and discomfort, he pulled vainly at the chains holding him, earning himself little more than angry red blotches across his arms and legs for his trouble. His voice became high and terrified. "I'll do whatever you want, just don't _kill me_!"

His outcry did little to move the woman. Instead, she went about her business, loading the chambers with bullets which the young man found to be made of a particularly bright metal.

His stomach gave a sudden lurch as he reached an epiphany.

Color draining from his face, his tone changed to one of harried quietness. "I'm sorry. Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry. Was it someone you knew? Loved? I swear, I don't mean to do it. It just happens! You have to believe me - I'm a good person! I'm just sick!"

Snapping the cylinder back into place, the woman got to her feet and looked at the boy for the first time since he'd woken up.

"Please! I'm just _sick_!"

The sun was setting behind her, the glare making her little more than a mottled silhouette as it sank behind the trees. It would be a beautiful evening - clear and cloudless with a full moon shining above them like a celestial silver dollar.

A choking noise began to issue from the chained young man, his chest suddenly heaving and eyes rolling back into his head. Back arching, he strained against his bonds, seeming not to feel them biting into his skin which was beginning to bristle with coarse, grey hair. His body writhed and bent at unnatural angles as joints and bones shifted their positions and shapes. New muscles squirmed like worms beneath the skin of an apple as his stature expanded into new and fearful symmetry. Voice becoming more guttural and less human by the moment, his face, disfigured by agony, seemed to flow forward, mouth and nose stretching out to accommodate his lengthening teeth.

She waited, unfazed, for his transformation's completion. The werewolf that had moments before been a young man snapped its head around in her direction, fixing her with murderous yellow eyes. Among other things, werewolves, as a rule, detest confinement and are exceptional at breaking free of it. As such, Angela Ender had no intention of allowing him the opportunity.

There was a jolt up her arm as the gun fired, the ring of the shot that lingered in her ears, and a neat hole punched between the eyes of the chained monster. The tree behind his head was a mess of gore and cranial debris which left her with the satisfaction of having accomplished this particular step.

She wanted to work quickly because werewolf corpses sometimes had peculiar reactions to silver and the preservation of this one's various body parts was vital. Holstering her gun, she turned and began to retrieve items from the van she'd parked nearby. While she'd been fairly confident in her ability to dispatch the thing before it broke free and caused any major damage, she hadn't wanted to chance the possibility of losing the equipment she'd brought along for this particular job. Setting about the business of changing her attire, she donned a long coat and appropriate gloves as well as a protective breathing mask and goggles. A generator and lights came next, which she set up and aimed at the still-warm dissection subject.

The odor was not encouraging.

It was a situation best approached by keeping a stiff upper lip and thinking of England.

It was after she'd begun the draining process and started about the business of seeing whether or not she might be able to procure two whole and undamaged werewolf eyes that her phone went off. Recognizing the tone that signified she was getting a call from the office, she clipped her earpiece on.

"Lyle, if it's about my high school reunion again, for the last time, I'm not going. And if it's the client for the werewolf case, kindly tell them to keep their pants on - I got him. It wasn't hard. I am, however, in the process of getting my end of the bargain and I'd really rather not be bothered now if it's all the same."

She began to apply herself again to her work, quieting as she listened to the voice on the other end.

"Very well, if it isn't them, who is it?

"Yes, I've heard of them. Please don't insult my observational skills...not that I'd really need any in their case. But go on.

"Oh? That's peculiar. Why?

"That's it? You told them about my fee, right?

"Oh, _really_ now? That's generous of them. Well, how much more did they offer?"

The voice on the other end quoted a truly ludicrous sum. A lesser person might have fainted or had their mind promptly blown at the mere effort of trying to comprehend a number that most mathematicians referred to in strictly theoretical terms.

Angela merely paused in her work and furrowed her brow.

"That...is a retarded amount of money."

She rolled her eye, more at herself than anything else for failing to come up with a better adjective.

"No. That's downright suspicious. It implies a lot more involvement than observation. I can't think of anyone who'd pay that much for reconnaissance work. Even from someone like me. I'm a little puzzled as to why they'd want me keeping an eye on a metal band, anyway. There's nothing paranormal about them, as far as I can tell. Granted, I haven't looked into the matter with great thoroughness. Maybe they want someone with my perspective looking for something they might miss.

"Lyle, the chance of them actually_ successfully_ using any necronomic spells, Finnish or otherwise, is extraordinarily slim. If I went after every idiot who got their hands on a necronomicon, I'd be up to my eye-ball in college kids and suburban house wives chasing the latest religious trend to try and breathe excitement into all that is stale and dead in their lives. Honestly, I wouldn't be too worried. Clearly, there's another concern here that our would-be employer is not telling us about.

"Just tell them I've been made aware of their proposition and will consider it. I'd like to learn a little more about our potential benefactors before I take so much as a nickel from them. Good. Now, if that's all, please excuse me while I get back to--"

Angela pulled her instrument away as the monstrous body chained to the tree began to twitch and convulse. There wasn't enough time to pull back any further and she found herself on the business end of a very messy, extraordinarily bloody, projectile vomit. Looking down front of her coat, which now bore a striking resemblance to a Jackson Pollack painting, she released her exasperation in a drawn out sigh before answering the worried inquiries buzzing into her ear.

"...Nothing. No, I'm fine. They just do...really unpredictable and evidently incredibly disgusting things when you shoot them in the brain with a silver bullet. I'll call you if I need anything. Just...would you hold off on sending my things to the dry cleaner until after I get back? Thanks."

Once off the phone, Angela squinted at a particular bloody lump that was plastered to her coat. Removing it gingerly with the tips of her gloved fingers, she held it up to the light.

It was a very small, partially digested human finger. It was still wearing the remains of a ring from a crackerjack box.

Angela's lip curled slightly under her mask as she turned to address the recently deceased lycanthrope.

"I knew you deserved it."


	2. Summoning & CFOs part 1

Standard Disclaimer Ahoy:

Metalocalypse and it's characters don't belong to me - they gestated in the man-wombs of Tommy Blacha & Brendon Small. Angela, Lyle & 63 are mine.

Chapter 1: Summoning & CFOs

Part 1

_In which Charles Foster Ofdensen does some reflecting_

"What did I do to deserve this?"

The words were mumbled under the breath of the CFO for the most successful band in recorded history and they concerned the contents of the box that sat before him as well as the thick stack of paper that was beside it.

Finland had been a dark blot in the back of his head ever since his boys had finished up their last tour. First and foremost among the issues they had been the cause of was, naturally, the destruction of land and property. Necessary waivers and legal documents had been distributed throughout the Southern part of Finland to citizens and federal officials. But sometimes razing entire villages did not incline their former residents to purchase new merchandise from those who they viewed as responsible for their newly homeless state. This was to say nothing of the fact that Skwisgaar's claim that he 'must have you-know-what'd with about five hundred girls' (something he had made a point of shoe-horning into every conversation that was had by the band ever since he'd learned they would be returning) may very well have been close to the mark. An alarming number of children recently born to Finnish mothers in the vicinity of the band's last concert bore a more-than-passing resemblance to Dethklok's lead guitarist.

Thank God for paternal responsibility waivers.

Thus the financial necessity for an apology became evident.

At first Charles had been surprised at how easily his band was forgiven their transgressions. They got away with, both figuratively and sometimes literally, murder. While there were occasional dips in sales following particularly heinous crimes against human decency, he had found paradoxically that there was an equal chance of positive reaction that occurred in light of aforementioned crimes. It seemed more or less up to the whims of the fans as to what was lauded and what warranted a tighter wallet. After working as long as he had with them, though, nothing really surprised Dethklok's manager anymore. If anything he saw it, at the best of times during the worst of times, as a sort of challenge.

It had not escaped his notice, however, that there were some who were not entirely forgiving. The possibility of that minority growing in size and power was a constant nag in the back of his mind; like a cut in your mouth you know would heal of you could just stop tonguing it.

But that was his job and he'd found time and time again that an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of the cure. Some people might accuse him of suffering at least a mild bout of paranoia, but Charles was hardly going to let what anyone said get to him. His mind set had served him stunningly well so far and if it became a necessity to change it, he would. For the time being, though, it harmonized with his line of work beautifully.

And there was nothing wrong, he thought as he leafed through a few pages on the table, with beefing up the old home security.

He removed a phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial for Mordhaus' research and development department.

_Hello, sir. How can I be of service?_

"Just calling to check in."

Number 63 had always been exceptionally good with his hands. While the Klokateer in question had always been skilled with repairing the cars the boys frequently decimated or figuring out complex wiring arrangements relating to on-stage performances, Charles had also discovered that he was responsible for several of the stained glass windows found around the complex and was an ardent student of human anatomy. The combination intrigued the CFO and he felt it hinted at a greater potential. Naturally, when he approached the Klokateer about some side projects he was working on concerning security, the black-hooded underling was eager to render his services.

"How is 99?"

_Doing as well as can be expected, sir. As far as I can tell, the procedure went smoothly, but it really is one of those things where only time can tell. We're hoping by doing this slowly she won't suffer from sensory deprivation as acutely as the others did._

"So you've told me. Do you have the supplies for the stimulants and depressants should they become necessary?"

_Of course._

Truthfully, just about anything the team lacked could probably be found in Pickles' private stash. The multi-colored galaxy of substances meant to enhance, dampen and otherwise alter one's state of being that the drummer called his own was enough to make even Hunter S. Thompson blush.

"And the S.H.A.P.E. rounds?"

_We think we have a workable set of them. If sir would care for a little hands-on testing..._

"Naturally. Have the range ready for me by the time I get back. I also wanted to talk to you about the A.I. that's going into the anti-missile and air-craft units. How are we as far as working the bugs out?"

_We are taking the necessary steps, but it's coming a bit slowly, truth be told._

"Don't worry about that for now. I'd rather you take your time than have to suffer from friendly fire."

_If I may, how are you finding Finland, sir?_

"I haven't gotten a chance to see much of it. The boys and I have spent most of our time on the bus. I just got finished writing the apology Nathan's going to deliver and I'm getting ready to show them the Dethphones they designed."

_...Those wouldn't be the ones they happened to work on the last time they got a gift basket from _'Booze, Broads & Bullets'_ would they?_

"The very same."

_With all due respect sir, how on Earth did they talk you into those?_

"With extraordinarily creative and inhumanly violent death threats."

_Ah. The usual._

Charles' bespectacled eyes fell and lingered upon the Box-of-Bad-Ideas that sat on the table before him.

"The usual. I, ah, hope your professional pride isn't too badly wounded."

_I understand my Lords'...taste and eccentricities._

63 had, in his spare time, come up with several very clever cellular devices (one of which Charles was using), but in the end, copious amounts of tequila and barenfang had made a much more compelling argument in favor of the box's contents.

_I simply hope they do not too badly disfigure themselves._

A pause.

_Or, y'know...land on them if they fall down or something. I mean...landing on your keys is bad enough. Could you imagine a Dethphone in your back pocket? I mean, jeez._

"Hm. Indeed. In any case, I believe we're closing in on Espoo. I expect the advance team has things set up on the lake now."

_Bodom?_

"Of course."

Murderface had made a point of selecting their location and the band had instantly taken to his morbid proposition.

_Of course._

Charles could hear the grim smile in 63's voice.

"That's all. I'll see you when we return."

_Best of luck, sir._

Ofdensen flipped his phone shut and tucked it into his breast pocket, his eyes being drawn almost against their will back to the box marked with the stylized, crimson 'DETHPHONES' label. He wondered idly whether or not the boys even remembered making the deal in the first place. Generally there was a fifty/fifty chance when they endeavored under a drunken stupor. Charles himself had a variety of very vivid memories in such cases. Most recently there had been a particularly...interesting...evening in which Toki had asserted that he could, in fact, climb the walls of the recreation room with the aid of only his lips.

The boys found it hilarious and the Klokateers had spent roughly an hour using a broom trying to 'shoo' the young Norwegian off of the ceiling fan.

It was sometimes unpredictable, often dangerous and always interesting.

Charles wouldn't have it any other way.

In the great glossary of meaningless jobs in America...in the world, really...he had recognized a certain malicious drive in the proverbial system to stamp down those who raised their heads. To elude it - to work around it was a truly magnificent feat. The sad smile and the phrase, 'This is what I'm doing; not what I do' was a mantra he'd heard all too often. He'd seen people settle into things that they were better than and he'd determined a long time ago that he wouldn't let that tragedy happen to him.

Charles Foster Ofdensen was what he wanted to be. He recognized the power and beauty in that fact because there had been times when he wasn't. And if those burger flippers and software programmers and lawyers had better life expectancies than he did...well...what kind of life did they really have, anyway?

Self-delusion had never suited him. There is no clarity of mind quite like putting your life and honor on the line for the sake of something that was at once yourself and greater than yourself.

But he's always considered that to be basic work ethic.

Which brought him back to the box full of cell phones before him. Picking it up, he started down the hallway to the double doors that were the entrance to the band's rec room in the Dethbus.

Uncomfortable design, one line between five phones and night time minutes that started at eleven o'clock?

"Don'ts do me any favors - throw up on yourself."

Well, maybe the boys deserved it.


	3. Summoning & CFOs part 2

Standard Disclaimer Ahoy:

Metalocalypse and it's characters don't belong to me - they have been branded like so many head of cattle by Tommy Blacha & Brendon Small. This includes the barkeep from Dethtroll, whom I've taken a few artistic liberties with concerning name and origin. Angela & Lyle are mine.

**Witchklok**

Chapter 1: Summoning & CFOs

Part 2

_In which a dead secretary has a discussion with his employer, a Finnish faerie is tapped for an opinion and a lake troll is roused from his slumber to a breakfast of metal heads_

For a dead guy, Lyle wasn't that bad.

He was an exceptional secretary with neat handwriting, an excellent memory and magnificent research skills. Also, he was possessed of keen observational and analytical skills and, seeing as he no longer had a corporeal body, didn't sleep. This astuteness, however, sometimes proved to be remarkably irritating to Angela at times such as the one she was experiencing now, because he could read her like a book.

"It's still bothering you, isn't it?"

"Lyle, are you just completely incapable of retiring the subject?"

"Yes, madam."

Seated behind her desk, Angela drew a testy circle with one fingertip on her laptop's track pad, cursor orbiting her latest bit of research. She was half tempted to close the windows and feign innocence of her continued nagging obsession, but it would be pointless.

Lyle peered over her shoulder, giving his spectral glasses a push up his nose while chilling the air immediately around him by his mere presence. He'd died in the late nineteenth century and still 'wore' his Victorian era clothing over his slender frame. About twenty-five, give or take a year, he had a face that was square-ish and finely boned with a wide mouth beneath a prominent nose. His glasses only served to make his big, brown eyes seem even bigger by way of magnification, and the whole affair of the ex-living being was topped off with a well-kept head of wavy blonde hair. Appearing semi-transparent and somewhat flat, the coloration of Lyle's features and clothing was not unlike a black-and-white photo that had been color-tinted.

"Forgive me for being forward, madam, but may I be so bold as to suggest that this cannot be good for you?"

"Seeing as you've repeated that like a broken record since I turned down the job, I believe your concern for forwardness is a bit of a moot point."

The laptop's screen was currently displaying profiles of each band member that made up Dethklok. Notes accompanied all of these; bits pieced together by the one-eyed woman. Scheduled for an event in Espoo, Finland on the infamous lake Bodom, the band had been the chief project of Angela since she'd been offered a job for a ludicrous sum of money to gather information. She had yet to determine the source of the job offer, which was bothersome enough, but the amount of money that came along with it had lodged a nagging little thorn deep inside of her brain.

Why would someone want to so badly hire a _paranormal investigator_ to look after a _metal band_?

That question had since turned into a mantra repeating over and over again on an endless loop in her head.

The fact that she couldn't figure out who, exactly, was offering this job was enough to make her turn it down. Even the birds couldn't tell her, which was downright troubling. Still, professional curiosity would not relent and she found herself, casually at first, giving the matter a cursory glance to see if there was any merit in the conceit of a world-famous band requiring investigation of a paranormal nature. She'd heard of them, naturally - one could hardly turn on the television without hearing their name or walk down a grocery store aisle without seeing their faces stamping their endorsements on the most random items. That a death metal band had gotten a hold of a book full of necronomic spells was nothing new. If anything, it was pretty much par for the course. That they were as popular as they were...as influential...was more unusual. Their level of wealth and renown was unprecedented. With one in three human beings on the planet being fans of the band, it had more followers than any religion currently being practiced. That they got off pretty much scot free from any liability as far as the wanton destruction went said a great deal about whomever it was behind their legal team. The sheer volume of death and destruction was a bit startling once she'd looked at the figures, but she couldn't really say if that was symptomatic of something paranormal or simply a grim evolutionary branch of entertainment. There were things that happened on stage and around it during their performances that Angela could probably write off to special effects. Whether or not that was indeed the case would need to be examined more carefully and would require a more hands-on approach. But what really drew her attention to them was all the little, seemingly unrelated things that happened in the towns where they played.

The last time the played a show in Seattle, every drop of milk within five miles of the concert site had curdled. One year ago in Tokyo, every child birthed during the performance of the band came into the world blind. In Cardiff, people would tell tales of how, on a night which happened to coincide with a Dethklok performance, every cat in the city unable to be restrained by their owners, came out into the streets en masse. And, as if they had all unanimously agreed they had grown tired of life, every single one walked soundlessly into the bay.

There was a story for each individual performance.

It could have been coincidence. It could have been that, having the seed planted into her brain, she was seeking out connections and imposing patterns upon the events that weren't actually there. But it _bothered_ the woman that she could find no explanation that met her satisfaction on the matter.

"Would you care for a cup of tea, perhaps? For your nerves."

Angela's eye flitted back to her assistant and she waved a hand dismissively. "No, thank you. My nerves are fine."

He made a slight, disapproving sniff and raised one eyebrow. "I beg to differ. Miss Ender, you have not slept through a single night since I mentioned the job offer to you. I know for a fact that after you...take your exercise...babies don't sleep as well as you do."

"Are you watching me sleep, Lyle?"

"My _point_," the ghost continued, "is that you are becoming a bit frayed around the edges. Furthermore, I am of the opinion that if you don't do something about it, it's going to begin surfacing in your work. Say what you will, but considering the nature of our endeavors, having you properly hemmed is going to serve you far better. Call me familiar, but I'd prefer you alive."

"So, I could use a bit of hemming?"

"The thought had occurred, yes."

"And what do you suggest?"

"Ordinarily I'd suggest a short vacation possibly involving sandy beaches and a number of attractive young things to take your mind off your work." Lyle raised an insubstantial eyebrow. "But because you're _you_, I think you should spend the time just going to the blasted concert, because if you don't you're going to drive yourself mad. If nothing else, you'll be treated to a performance from the foremost cultural force on the planet and maybe you can finally put this obsession of yours to bed. Either that or something happens and once you can assess first hand whether or not it's worth investigating, we'll go from there. Whatever happens to be the case will certainly be preferable to this, because your nerves are wearing off on me and I haven't even got any nerves _left_."

Angela gave him a very long look. "You've already ordered my plane ticket, haven't you?"

"Two days ago, as a matter of fact."

The paranormal investigator got to her feet with an arched eyebrow and a ghost of a smirk on her features. "All right - fine. I'll go. But the chances of something happening...they're slim to nil. Hell, if anything _does_ happen, you can butter my ass and call me 'Biscuit'."

***

"You're staring at my hump, aren't you?"

"What? No, no of course no--okay, yeah. Yes. I am staring at the hump. I'm just...damn, Stig, how the Hell do you get away with not wearing any glamour these days?"

"Oh, you know how it is - political correctness and all that. To say nothing of media exposure to the strange and unusual things that were once considered to be the dark corners of the world. It makes it all a good deal more acceptable these days. All the same, you don't see me staring at your own asymmetrical facial features."

"Hey - it's a missing eye. It's a little more acceptable than...well...I mean, I don't think Mary Kay could make enough cover up for you. Anyway, why are _you_ so testy all of a sudden?"

"Forgive me, but I haven't forgotten that _cold iron_ you threatened me with the last time we crossed paths."

"For Sif's sweet sake, I wasn't actually going to _use_ that. Anyway, what are you going to do to keep me out? Put a horseshoe up over your door? Would you let me watch you _try_ that? Because that would make my _year_."

The barkeep across from Angela focused a hard eye on her. She returned the look with one that was completely unperturbed. The banter was to be expected and she knew for a fact he enjoyed it on some level. It wasn't many now that could recognize a menninkäinen, and Stig seemed both baffled and on some level grateful that Angela had some years ago when she'd dropped in to the establishment. She had found that he enjoyed talking - telling stories - and that had come as an immense help to her. Angela expected it was because he was lonely, and in a way she could sympathize.

It did not change the fact that he looked like a hundred miles of bad road.

"So, what is it that you want to know, exactly?"

"In your opinion," she said slowly, tracing the lip of an untouched glass of water before her, "how likely is it for this band to do anything harmful with that book they've got? Personally, I don't think it's too probable that they'd do anything major, but..."

"You must have some doubt," Stig said, folding his crooked hands on the bar, "otherwise you wouldn't have bothered coming all the way out here. You're quite a ways away from home, if I'm not mistaken. _And_ you're asking my opinion on this. Either you're not as sure about this as you're saying, or maybe you're _hoping_ something is going to happen."

"Professional curiosity," the dark-haired woman said, raising an eyebrow bisected by scar tissue. "Besides, I had some money to burn and I heard they put on a good show."

Stig tilted his chin down slightly, mouth pulling up horribly at the sides displaying gnarled teeth in what Angela surmised was supposed to be a smile. "Of course. Honestly, the likelihood would, ordinarily, be so infinitesimal that I wouldn't give a bee sting for their presence here. This band, though," the menninkäinen said thoughtfully, "may prove to be a bit...different. The last time they came to Finland, very peculiar things happened. Even now, the few fellows of mine that remain in these parts felt their approach."

"Speaking of," she said, glancing at her watch, "they should be starting things up very soon. Thanks for your time, Stig. It's always appreciated." A coin with a very unusual shape and stamp was pressed by her thumb to the bar's top.

Her contact's eyes lit up briefly and he favored her with another awful smile. "The pleasure was mine."

* * *

Angela made a slight face that had nothing to do with the chill that nibbled relentlessly at her exposed skin. Cold she could deal with. It was Dethklok's tardiness that was beginning to get on her nerves. Upon reflection, she should have expected it. Even so, she had to use a telescope (wasn't much point in getting binoculars) to get the view she wanted - evidently people had been camping out at the site for weeks to get a good, close look at the quintet.

She was curious, but the investigator would be godsdamned if she was going to camp out for weeks for this.

It was a pretty basic set up - a stage with a large, Finnish flag as the backdrop behind which she had seen a group of not-unconsiderably sized men set up Dethklok's equipment. The crew still hung about the stage, not doing a great deal besides looking imposing. They were all decked out in black executioner's hoods and similarly black short-sleeved shirts, pants and gloves. There was something almost comical about how over-the-top it all was, but there was a certain prickling along the back of her neck which barred her from outright laughter.

Knowing the band was finally coming on stage was easy enough - even before Angela saw them, she could feel the ripple of excitement through the crowd; hear the message resonate from one end to the other like a domino effect. Adjusting her scope, the first person Angela caught sight of mounting the stage was a man who in no way said, 'Rock Star' - if anything, quite the reverse. He was about her height, perhaps a bit taller, and dressed in a way that said 'business man' so loudly it was almost as if he were a caricature instead of the genuine article. His steps and even the way his arms swung at his sides had a kind of measurement to them that made them almost look practiced - as if the energy he spent was calculated in such a way as to waste nothing.

His shoes were polished, too.

It was the kind of detail one usually doesn't notice. Something that you wouldn't really see unless you were looking for it. Something few people these days bothered with. It was sort of like cooking - making sure an oven is pre-heated just so before putting something into it, or double-checking the steam one used to prepare their vegetables with to ensure they came out the right shape and texture. The little things that separated an average meal from one out of an upscale restaurant.

_Huh._

He came to a halt beside a podium and Angela didn't have much longer to think it over before the crowd erupted into a cacophony so sudden and so raucous that she startled and almost dropped what she was holding. Cursing under her breath, the one-eyed woman brought the telescope to her eye again and surveyed the five others climbing onto the stage.

The first one was built like a refrigerator and moved with about as much grace. She recognized him immediately as Nathan Explosion, the band's front man and vocalist. He was slightly hunched as he walked, his long, raven-colored hair framing his face in curtains that at first glance may have been to further his rock-star image. Upon closer examination, though, it seemed more like he was hiding behind it - something in the way he walked and the slight twitch in his thick-fingered hands suggesting self consciousness. He was handed a sheet of paper from the business man which he proceeded to death grip along with one side of the podium; decorated rather inappropriately, Angela felt, with a carved, floral motif. He curled forward even further over toward a microphone and waited while the rest of his band mates joined him.

Nathan soon found himself flanked on one side by Pickles and the other by Murderface. The drummer, in sharp contrast to the other two men, was much thinner and betrayed his age little save his balding which the red-head was attempting to cover with his unusual dreadlock combover. It was an weird way to 'rock the skullet,' but it could be chalked up, she figured, to his obscene substance abuse over the years. Of all of them, he was arguably the most at-ease and played a sharp contrast to the bassist who stood on Nathan's other side.

Pug-faced was too kind. It looked like someone has attempted to put their fist between the eyes and out the back of William Murderface's skull and had only gotten roughly an eighth of the way there. Still, plenty enough of an impact to leave an indelible mark. His pinched expression seemed to be permanently scowling, and his entire frame was rigid with a sort of forced ease he obviously didn't genuinely feel. He seemed to have a kind of chip on his shoulder, and where the singer seemed self-conscious, Murderface just seemed sort of vulnerable.

The last two members of the band stood apart from the others - a tow-headed, extremely tall and skinny fellow next to a shorter, more sturdily built and darker-haired young man. Unmistakably Skwisgaar Skwigelf and Toki Wartooth - the Scandinavian portion of the band. The Swede seemed, more than anything, to effect the expression of someone being put upon. He wore his conception of his own superiority not just on his sleeve, but in every metaphorical stitch of fabric that adorned his proverbial body. He regarded the assembled throng through heavy-lidded, blue eyes, a small sneer curling his lips as if the lot of them had just blundered in to ask him a favor while he was in the middle of doing something important.

Toki, on the other hand, seemed more than anything to be oblivious to the finer points of what was happening around him. The Norwegian's eyes wandered to and fro and he seemed to exist in a cloud of a kind of muddled happiness. If the crowd effected him in any way, he didn't outwardly express it, instead reminding Angela more than a little of a child who'd wandered into an adult's party and was enjoying himself and the fact that he'd gotten there in the first place without really comprehending what was going on.

Every single one of them wore something on their belts Angela couldn't identify but that looked suspiciously like the bastard hate children that resulted between the breeding of a mace and a Motorola.

As the assembled began to quiet and the band's vocalist gave a growl that was meant to be him clearing his throat, Angela couldn't help but feel her heart give a tiny leap of anticipation. The woman immediately admonished herself inwardly, feeling a bit embarrassed that she was permitting all of this to get to her in such a way.

Don't be ridiculous - nothing is going to happen.

_Yes, but what if?_

She realized she'd been holding her breath; that tiny voice reminding her of Stig's observation. Maybe she _did_ want something to happen. Not even anything big. Just something..._any_thing...to justify her restlessness. The cost of the plane ticket she could care less about. Money came and money went. If they could just give her a _reason_...

And then Nathan Explosion opened his mouth.

Angela wasn't sure what she was expecting _exactly_, but it wasn't the drivel that he mumbled into the microphone. Her heart didn't sink. It felt more like a taut, cynical cord was being plucked inside of the woman. Breathing out a sigh through her nose, she lowered her telescope and listened as the end of the ebon-haired one's speech was punctuated by the sound of a beer can being cracked open. A moment longer was all she needed to wait before all the anticipation dribbled out of her in little rivulets upon hearing Murderface break off in the middle of his greeting to have a conversation on his cell phone.

So much for all that.

Not even bothering to curse about it all, Angela instead opted to look for the nearest coffee stand. She didn't have difficulty finding one as several had been erected throughout the immediate area to hawk the Duncan Hills franchise the band had endorsed recently. Staffed by one of the hooded figures dressed also in a matching apron, she said only, "Large with two sugars," in a rather dejected tone as she heard the assembled crowd let out a collective gasp at the news of Dethklok taking their latest song lyrics from a 'Finnish folklore book of necronomic spells.'

Setting down the money for her drink, Angela caught out of the corner of her eye the burst of fire as the Finnish flag ignited and flashed away like a bit of oil-soaked tissue paper to reveal towers of amplifiers and pinwheeling hair. The noise that issued from the stage was like being thrown bodily through a wall of fish hooks, but the woman couldn't deny it had its appeal.

Taking a long pull from her coffee she started to make her way free of the crowd, thinking she could at least beat the post-performance traffic jam if she left now.

It was the abrupt darkness that gave her pause.

Espoo had been enjoying a fair, if chilly, day right up until the band had gotten a few verses into their song. At that point, the sky had spontaneously turned into a churning tempest of black clouds. Brow furrowed and still sipping her coffee, Angela's tawny eye slowly angled upward to take in the weather's sudden mood swing. It wasn't until she heard the first screams of horror and the unearthly bellow that she snapped around to face the lake again and saw the hulk of monstrous flesh that had risen from it.

Angela did a spit take, dropped her styrofoam cup and gaped, slack-jawed as citizens of Espoo made a panicked rush for the nearest shelter all around her.

She stood absolutely still as her mind attempted to wrap itself around the fact that what was unmistakably a troll had just emerged from Lake Bodom and was scooping up a few of those eager fans that had camped out for weeks to pop them into its mouth like so many screaming cheetos.

Only one word was apt enough to encompass the situation.

"Fuck!"

And, still grappling with the reality that had far and away exceeded _any_ expectations she had brought with her to Finland, she repeated herself once more, with feeling.

"_Fuck_!"

Survival instincts kicking in, the paranormal investigator made a hurried retreat to safer ground while the lake troll Mustakrakish amused himself by sating his thousand-year-old hunger with Dethklok's loyal fan base. Fumbling a bit at first, she managed to fish out her head piece and cell phone, hitting the speed dial for her office.

"Lyle? This is Biscuit. Get the butter."


	4. Summoning & CFOs part 3

Standard Disclaimer:

I did not create and do not own Dethklok, Charles, Mustakrakish or anything Metalocalypse-related. They belong to Small and Blacha. Angela & Lyle are mine. Angela's trick takes a page out of the book of Tara Chace, a character of Greg Rucka's.

**Witchklok**

Chapter 1: Summonings & CFOs

Part 3

_In which there is a good deal of explaining done between a paranormal investigator and a metal band's chief financial officer and a young Norwegian becomes most enthusiastic over the prospect of having a pet troll and seeing some titties_

"Now, before we begin, I suggest you tell me the truth, or else you'll get the liar's scar. Who are you and how did you get in here?"

Charles held the woman who'd just stumbled into his office from behind. The knife he had pressed to her throat glinted in multicolor by way of the light radiating from the Tiffany lamp sitting on his desk. She made no attempt to struggle, and when she spoke, her voice was terse but free of panic.

"I'm Angela Ender, and a great deal more easily than I expected."

Charles' brow furrowed. This was not an ordinary response for him. He generally considered becoming involved in a situation physically as a failing on his part - it was indicative of something breaking down and the matter in question getting out of hand. Considering what had happened not an hour ago, however, he was somewhat _on edge_. Evidently the stunt that the boys had just pulled had had an effect on their record sales and it had put him in a decidedly sour mood. Furthermore, she'd entered so abruptly and was such an alien element that the reaction had been involuntary.

He also found _that_ to be irksome. A lack of control was hardly what was needed at this juncture.

Relaxing his grip and releasing a breath, he took a step back, withdrawing the blade from the dark-haired woman's throat. Her hand went instinctively to the place the edge was pressed, probing the skin with her fingertips.

There was no reason for alarm at this point. Had she remained an unknown to him in this situation, she would have been dangerous. As it stood now, she was under his eyes and in his domain. Barring any x-factors, he currently had the advantage.

"Please have a seat." The tone with which he said 'please' indicated the word was purely ornamental. The CFO waited until the woman settled into a chair opposite his desk before taking his usual place behind it, eyes never straying from her.

Her dark hair was done up in such a way as to suggest hurry. The object of it seemed to concern obscuring a considerable amount of scar tissue that covered her left eye socket which she was now unworried about hiding. The suit jacket and skirt she wore were a bit large on her and slightly singed. All in all, the impression she gave off upon something more than cursory examination was one of a rushed job.

Probably someone in the audience who'd taken advantage of the chaos that followed Mustakrakish's appearance. If she were a fan, she would more likely have gone for the boys. Instead, she'd found her way to Charles.

That troubled him. It meant she had other reasons for being there today.

"Now. I'd care for a little more detail as to how you made your way here and why. My time is at even more of a premium than it usually is in light of recent events, so I entreat you to be quick about this. Give me the highlights."

Her preamble consisted of a pregnant moment of silence and a raised brow.

* * *

"This is never going to work."

Angela muttered her new mantra under her breath as she rummaged through the remains of a troll-ravaged boutique. Aforementioned mythological monstrosity was currently busying himself with testing the flexibility and tenacity of twenty-first century human bodies. He'd gotten a hold of a particularly bendy young man and was thoroughly enjoying himself.

Ah, human beings. Angela recalled someone mentioning briefly that they were the Elvis of snack foods for monsters.

"Was that Vlad the Impaler or Warren Ellis?" she murmured absently while extricating a serviceable pair of black pumps from a mound of wreckage.

Nerves. Godsdamned Lyle.

But it wasn't that. Not nerves. Not in the regular sense, anyway. She was loathe to admit it, but there was a certain giddiness that had a hold on her. A lake troll. In all the scenarios she'd considered, there was nothing quite on this scale. She'd never actually even_ seen _anything quite on this scale before. Unfortunately, it wasn't one she could deal with. At least not on her own.

Business attire was fairly simple to come by - the trouble was finding any that hadn't been burned to rags. There was something close to her size that was only mildly singed that she finally settled on.

Finding them wouldn't be difficult - she'd seen their monstrous bus coming in to town. Getting in, though, would be another story.

Angela looked at the kit bag she'd brought with her, thinking of some of the surveillance and documentation equipment within. Particularly the polaroid camera.

Fail or succeed, this was all about to get even more interesting in very short order.

"This is never going to work."

* * *

Charles gave her a hard look. "So, I'm meant to believe that my men were taken in by your...clever disguise?"

The CFO had a bit more faith in his Klokateers than that. His hiring process was fairly stringent and the spectrum of talent that it delivered was carefully assessed and appropriately distributed.

He knew. He'd done it himself.

Angela's expression tightened and her eye traced the ceiling before meeting Charles' bespectacled gaze again.

"Well...no. Not _exactly_."

* * *

"Begging your pardon, but I'm here to speak with Charles Foster Ofdensen. It's concerning some possible botched paperwork about several women who may be mothers to the band's more...prolific member."

Angela had never before affected a Finnish accent, but she felt her imitation was accurate enough. The guards were difficult to gauge - she couldn't make out their expressions or see their eyes. Going in with so little was atypical, but at this point she didn't have much of a choice. She was just glad that the guard detail of two personnel outside of the bus was male - at least she had marginally better statistical odds of this working.

"Could I see your papers, ma'am?"

"Of course, just a moment, please."

Producing a file from her case, Angela made a tiny noise as she fumbled, the papers scattering to the ground at her feet.

"Oh, my. I'm terribly sorry - here, let me get that." She then knelt and proceeded to gather her documents. The Klokateer that had been helping her spoke and there was no mistaking the grin in his voice.

"Hold on - what's _this_?"

Feeling him kneel beside her, Angela watched as the guard picked up three polaroid photos from among the scattered files, heart hammering in her chest.

"Ah! Those...I'm sorry, could I have those back?" she said, flustered and blushing while thrusting the gathered documents in his direction and getting to her feet.

"Just a moment, please," the guard said, the smile still in his tone as he took the proffered paperwork and turned to consult with his co-worker.

There was no need to feign anxiety as she heard them murmur back and forth, giving each other a cajoling nudge of the elbow now and then.

_That's right...look at the lovely, naked photos...heed the titties. Don't notice that I smell like a burnt out building...pay no attention to the paperwork. It's fake, anyway._

After about a minute, the guard turned back, handing Angela the file she'd given him. "So, these are of you?"

"Er, yes. They're for my boyfriend."

"He's a lucky man." She supposed he'd intended his voice to sound husky - sexy.

Angela did her best to look demure, avoiding eye contact as she took the file with a nervous titter.

"Well, everything seems to be in order. Go ahead. He's on the second floor, third door to the left."

"Thanks," she said, the word breathy with an embarrassed laugh.

Once she was inside with the door closed behind her, Angela stood a moment and gathered her frayed wits.

_Tara Chace, you are the master._

* * *

"Misdirection. Clever." Charles paused. "And risky, all things considered."

"It worked, which was more than what I was expecting, so I'm not going to complain," she said frankly. "Rampant chaos caused by a lake troll and breasts are evidently two great tastes that taste great together when you're trying to infiltrate a bus."

Honestly, the easiest way in probably would have been to say she was one of Skwisgaar's, but he wasn't about to tell her that. He watched as she undid her hair from its clip before taking an eyepatch from her pocket and tying it into place, attentive to anything she might be trying to free from any hidden place on her person. If she was worried, she didn't show it. Instead, she acquitted herself with a matter-of-fact professionalism.

"So," he said once she'd folded her hands into her lap again, "what exactly brings you to Espoo? More precisely, why are you here to see _me_?" He hesitated again before pinching the bridge of his nose. "And if you knew where I was, may I ask what exactly that entrance was all about?"

* * *

"I hate heels."

Angela looked up the flight of stairs and her lip curled. There was a reason men stopped wearing the damn things. Ordinarily, she would have just slipped out of them and gone up the stairs, but she didn't know if she'd have to fool another guard, and claiming you were here on business when barefoot would probably arouse suspicion. With nothing else to be done for it, she started up the steps, acutely aware of the dangerously steep angle.

She wasn't entirely sure what to say when she got to the CFO. The woman had been trying and failing spectacularly at coming up with a clever lie - some excuse - for her to be here. Fairly certain he wasn't going to fall for the same trick the Klokateers did, she was seriously considering just telling the truth and seeing how that panned out. Being honest about the situation would be easier in the long run if this became something she wanted to more actively pursue. Considering the nigh limitless resources Ofdensen surely had at his disposal, it would be difficult to maintain a substantial and resilient web of lies. Inevitably, it would come apart and the backlash for something like that was something she really didn't care to dwell on for very long.

This all buzzing in her skull, Angela didn't notice until she was falling toward the door that was her goal that her shoes had evidently taken offense to her previous comment, and gotten all tangled up in something on the floor. Thanking her lucky stars that it was a motion sensitive door and opened to allow her graceless entry, the last thought she had before getting to her feet and finding a knife at her throat was:

_Who the Hell leaves a model plane out in the middle of a hallway?_

* * *

The blade lay gleaming on the desk top between Charles and the woman.

"I see. Well, then, that brings us to the next part - what are you doing here in the first place?"

"It concerns your band, but I figured I'd get more done more quickly by having a word with you than I would with them."

Charles narrowed his eyes at her slightly, a protective instinct stirring beneath the surface. One wrong word and he could make her a corpse in a number of ways that required no aid from any tools besides his own two hands or perhaps one of the fencing foils he had mounted on the walls. The knife between them was, more than anything, placed as a distraction. If she was foolish enough to reach for it, the conversation would be over. While in the initial design phase of the Dethbus, he'd been offered the option of installing a torture device or weapon for every letter of the alphabet in his office in the interests of security. He had opted out of it for a few reasons, but the chief one was that he felt it was excessive. There was something he found remarkably elegant, almost poetic, in the stark minimalism of a man armed with only a sword. Moreover, swords were unlike guns and other devices in the respect that they required no demonstration. A gun one might have to fire first to get their point across. A sword had the sort of authority that, at the very least, tended to make people think twice before doing anything stupid. She had, however, managed to get this far and interest, if nothing else, stayed his hand. The woman named Angela demonstrated her appreciation for the situation by cutting to the point.

"I'm a paranormal investigator," she said, not a hint of mirth or sarcasm in her voice, "and I was offered a job to spy on you lot for a sum of money that I could have used to start my own space program. I turned it down because not only does that amount of money imply more than the just the acquisition of information, I couldn't figure out who was offering it. I won't go into detail, but considering my usual methods of information gathering, that is_ cause for alarm_. Whatever the case may be, it got me curious, I had some extra cash and I decided to do a little research on my own. I turned up quite a few things that made me wonder if there might be anything of a paranormal nature worth researching about your band. And...well...seeing as they just summoned a lake troll, I'm going to go ahead and say there's a big, flashing, neon, 'YES' to that query." She let out a little breath through her nose. "I can understand if you're skeptical and that's fine. I'd simply like to point out that I could have gone to probably any of your band members and convinced them to take me seriously without too much of an effort, but instead I came to you because I don't want this to be some fickle amusement for them - I want this to stick. I brought copies of all of my research notes and they're yours to do with as you please, though I request that you give them at least a cursory glance. Should you choose to pursue a further investigation into all of this, I ask that you contact me - I'll leave you my card."

While she spoke, Charles searched the woman for any tell of a lie - drifting eyes, nervous ticks, tonal changes in her voice or the rapid flash of an increased pulse at her throat. The only thing that struck him as odd about her body language, though, was that it seemed to suggest she was, on some level, rather enjoying all of this. It was a little offsetting and somewhat amusing. If nothing else, she appeared to be in an element that suited her.

"So," he said slowly, eyes never straying, "let's say I believe all of this. What would you suggest for taking care of our current predicament?"

"Forget about regular ordnance and conventional weaponry," she answered immediately. "All those will succeed in doing is making it angrier. In my opinion, the best thing you could do for this is just put him back to sleep."

"How might that be accomplished?"

She spread her hands and shook her head. "I'm assuming if there's a spell to wake him up in that book, there's one to put him back to sleep. Usually this kind of thing is done most easily by whoever roused the beastie. All I know is that I don't have the time or resources to do anything about it before it does some serious damage. You want to turn this situation around, you have to convince the band to take responsibility for it."

Charles could already feel a headache forming just behind his eyes.

"I see," he said. He was thoughtful a while before nodding. "Very well. Please leave me the files you've gathered on Dethklok and go. If I need anything from you, I'll be in contact."

There was a moment's hesitation before the woman nodded, getting to her feet and removing a small stack of files from the shoulder bag she'd brought with her. Setting those atop his desk, she reached into her breast pocket and removed a card, extending it to him held between fore and middle fingers. Taking it, Charles watched her leave, stepping out of her pumps and carrying them as soon as she'd crossed the threshold of his office. Turning his gaze to the little slip of paper in his hand, he found it bore no graphic, its text simply reading:

**Angela Ender**

Paranormal Investigator & Consultant, Freelance Witch, Preternatural Pest Control

Appointments available by phone, walk-ins welcome

Discounted group rates on exorcisms every first Friday of the month

* * *

He'd let her leave alive, at least. While it wasn't the most ideal of outcomes, it as far from the worst that could have happened.

Now she just had wait and see if he contacted her after all this was done...and to decide whether walking in high heels or walking barefoot across broken ground strewn with debris was more comfortable.

Oh, decisions.

The leers she got on the way out from the guards when she was exiting reminded her, once she was out of sight, to get rid of the evidence concerning her impromptu photo shoot. Sitting down on a felled tree which had made a messy part through a residential building, she rifled through her bag, finding only two of the three polaroids she had taken and frowning.

"Those lecherous rat bastards..."

Hissing out a few oaths between her teeth, the woman decided to simply cut her losses. She was in no mood to try and negotiate with the burly security personnel and it was a small price to pay, all things considered.

Squinting a bit through the haze of smoke and dust that was quickly forming a canopy over the city, Angela pondered whether or not it would be worth her while to wait things out and see how the band fared with putting Mustakrakish to sleep or if it would be more prudent to get on the next plane out of the country.

Always decisions.

* * *

The tinny, nasal voice issuing from Murderface's Dethphone was like a cherry on top of a migraine sundae.

Standing before a roaring fireplace, arms crossed and mouth drawn in a tense line, Charles did his best to keep his temper in check.

While Finland burned, the members of Dethklok reposed in their bus' sumptuous recreation room. Nathan and Pickles were both relaxing in the circular hot tub installed into the center of the floor, the vocalist playing around on a laptop set afloat by pontoons while the drummer indulged in the (surely alcoholic) contents of a hurricane glass. Murderface reclined on a couch that rested on the truly magnificent mantlepiece over the roaring fireplace. Skwisgaar and Toki were sitting apart from the rest of the band, the Swede plucking frenetically at his guitar while the Norwegian seemed still to be entertaining the notion of having a giant troll carry him around.

Prior to this trip, Charles had gotten through a mountain of paperwork and now it looked like an even bigger one was going to be dumped at his feet upon the conclusion of this fiasco. It was a PR nightmare. The boys had failed spectacularly to deliver an apology to the citizens of Espoo, most of whom were now fodder for a rampaging lake troll the band had summoned. His lines of communication to the outside world were dwindling as the beast continued to wreak havoc upon Finland, his security team was going to get a serious reprimand for letting their guard down, and a woman had just given him a stack of papers after sneaking aboard the Dethbus saying that his band members were worthy of paranormal investigation.

It was a very surreal, very trying day and Charles Foster Ofdensen's patience was hanging by an exceptionally fine thread.

He barely heard Nathan's muttered disapproval of the Dethphone's ability to burn through minutes or Murderface's sputtered curse at what sounded like a pocket call on his answering service. "So, you think it might be a good business move to put that troll back to sleep?" he suggested, doing what he could to fence in his frustration. If nothing else, the one-eyed woman had been right - guns and other weaponry had proved completely ineffective against the monster.

At Charles' inquiry, Nathan let a resigned sigh buzz through his lips and he went back to surfing the internet on his floating computer. Not bothering to even lift his eyes to address his manager, the vocalist gave a shrug and muttered distractedly, "I, uh, I just, I just don't see that happening, y'know? Crappy troll knocked out the DSL and now it takes two minutes to get to --"

"Okay," the CFO said abruptly, his patience finally exhausted, "I did not want to say anything, but this is effecting your record sales."

A palpable tenseness settled in the room.

"There, I said it."

Well, at least that got their attention. Both Pickles and Nathan turned sour expressions in their manager's direction.

"Dood, nice one," the drummer spat in his thick, Yooper accent. "What are you trying to do, depress us? Well, it's workin'. Hope yer happy. Now I need a drink. A different one, not this one," he said, indicating the alcoholic concoction festooned with paper umbrella already in his hand. "At a different place."

There was a murmured chorus of agreement from the rest of the band, their manager finding himself distinctly nonplussed and shortly standing alone in the room as a parade of bored rock stars exited in search of mentally altering past times.

Well, he'd tried.

* * *

Toki Wartooth trailed behind his fellows a few steps as they trooped through the Dethbus toward its exit, deep in thought about what kind of things might be good to bait a troll trap with.

Ofdensen hadn't spoken too highly of the beast, but the rhythm guitarist was sure all it needed was a little care to be a perfectly acceptable pet.

Maybe candy. Candy was always good.

But Mustakrakish seemed to prefer people.

It would have to be people-flavored candy, then, he decided. They made that, didn't they?

As they passed the station of the guards for the Dethbus' door, Toki picked up a discarded copy of Guitar World and, upon cracking it open and seeing its decidedly exotic book mark, forgot entirely about what made the best troll bait.

"Oh, wowee! We gots to gets a subscriptions to the Finland Guitars World!" he declared gleefully. "They gots nakeds ladies insides!"


	5. For Your Consideration part 1

Standard Disclaimer Ahoy:

Metalocalypse and it's characters don't belong to me - they are property of Tommy Blacha & Brendon Small. Angela, Lyle, 63 & 99 belong to me. This one, like the other chapters, is going to be pretty Charles heavy.

**Witchklok**

Chapter 2: For Your Consideration

Part 1

_In which our intrepid paranormal investigator returns home, a certain CFO does a bit of checking in on various projects of interest, and the most successful band in recorded history suffers food poisoning from consuming improperly cooked troll flesh_

"So, how did it go with--"

"My contact was eaten by a lake troll."

"Oh. Well. Tea, Miss Biscuit?"

Angela tossed aside her jacket, which bore the strong and thoroughly unpleasant odor of a ruined Southern Finland before leveling her gaze at Lyle. "It's always tea with you. And if you ever _call_ me that again, I'll figure out a way to make you _die_ again."

"I suppose that means there'll be no need for the butter."

"Just keep pushin' it, mister."

"Whatever the case may have been, did you discover anything useful? I mean, besides the fact that whoever tried to hire you had a legitimate reason."

"Ofdensen may have been playing dumb about not knowing about all of this. It seemed that he knew exactly where to send his kids to figure out how to put the troll to sleep. They went to Stig's place right off the bat. Either that," the woman said with a snort and a raised eyebrow, "or they stumbled into the only pub I'm aware of in Southern Finland that was run by a menninkäinen purely by coincidence."

"Stranger things have happened," the ghost said with a shrug.

"True enough," she conceded before releasing a drawn out sigh. "Well, I gave Ofdensen all the information I'd put together on the band. At this point, it's up to him."

"Do you think you'll hear back from him?"

She narrowed her eye thoughtfully before speaking slowly. "I don't know. But I do know the man's not what he's making himself out to be. At least not entirely."

"How so?"

"Not sure about the details yet. I'd have to do a little research - come in contact with him more. We'll see what happens. The ball's in his court, so now we play the waiting game."

Lyle wrinkled his nose. "I dislike the 'waiting game'. Can't we play 'Hungry, Hungry Hippos'?"

"I really have to stop letting you watch those Simpsons DVDs. I think I'm going to get what I feel is a much deserved nap. If there's any contact from Ofdensen, wake me. Otherwise, mommy's sleeping and does not wish to be disturbed."

"And if we get any walk-ins?"

"They can wait."

In Angela's experience, her services were hard to come by, and therefore, valuable. If her customers wanted to grumble, they could go find someone else in her line of work. And when ithat/i person messed up, they'd come back to her, generally with additional issues that warranted higher fees. A luxury of being in her position was that putting up with her clients' bullshit was optional.

Angela had brought in a cot which she used when dealing with complex cases that kept her late and she simply felt it wasn't worth the gas to drive home to her apartment. It also served as a good place to nap when things were going very slowly. Canvas and wood, it would hardly be considered an upscale arrangement. The paranormal investigator used it now, and from the deep and dreamless nature of her sleep, one would have thought she was slumbering on a fine down comforter.

* * *

Charles had what many would consider to be a curious habit of extending his stark philosophy on weaponry to the men under his command. With the resources at his disposal, it might have seemed downright mind boggling and even dangerous to arm the Klokateers with naught but medieval weaponry. From a business standpoint, one could reason that perhaps he did it to cut down on costs. Upon closer examination, though, this theory fell apart because hiring and training an entirely new work force to replace one decimated by being improperly armed would be even more expensive than getting a few guns.

The CFO did this because he was a student of Vietnam.

Powerful weaponry could be a detriment for several reasons. But the main one was that, put a big, devastating weapon in somebody's hands and it induced a state not unlike being under the influence of psychoactive drugs. Feelings of invincibility and omnipotence naturally led to gross tactical errors that could easily result in the unnecessary loss of manpower. He understood there was a time and a place for such weaponry, but it was to be applied only after thorough consideration.

Besides, putting an emphasis on weapons acquisition when building an army was a rookie move. Communications? Now _that_ was something to focus on. What good were all the bullets in the world if you had no idea where to fire them? As such, Mordhaus was wired with the most advanced surveillance and communication equipment on or off the market and all of its soldiers were taught that, when dealing with an opposing force, you take out _their_ communications first. A few carefully selected targets could turn an encroaching, tightly organized force to be reckoned with into a chaotic mess.

History had shown him repeatedly that a big, bloated force made stupid and careless by guns could be easily trumped by a smaller, well informed and better organized one even if it had inferior weaponry.

It sort of tied back, he thought, to his philosophy with sword play. Unless your opponent is wearing some kind of armor (and sometimes even if they are), a large and cumbersome sword really isn't what you want. Human bodies are more fragile than most people realize. That's why, when you use a blade as your primary armament, speed is God. The trick isn't hacking the bastard into an unrecognizable pulp. On a battle field, if you have a big sword and you get it all tangled up in some guy's ribcage, spine or pelvis after you've cut into them and have to get it back out again, that's wasting valuable time and energy. And, chances are, your latest victim will have buddies with all kinds of vengeful atrocities in mind for you while you're trying to pull your clumsy hunk of metal free. Ofdensen would never think of a brain surgeon doing his job with a sledgehammer. That's why he favored the smaller, lighter, faster blades. It represented a sort of surgical mindset that he employed in most of his dealings.

So, with all this in mind, he wasn't going to authorize anyone on his work force to have more than six of the newly developed S.H.A.P.E. rounds if he chose to approve them.

The acronym stood for: Super Heated Armor Piercing Explosive. 63 had to develop a new firearm just to shoot the damn things iand/i make special targets that would best demonstrate how the rounds would work. So, Charles found himself firing a gun that kicked so hard it made the entire lower half of his arm numb at a soft target enveloped in the most advanced protective gear his Research and Development team had put together.

The bullet pierced the armor like a rocket-propelled sperm through an egg cell wall.

Charles saw the soft target inside make an awful, jerking motion. While the majority of the body was encased within the body armor, the head, which he could see through the visor, made an sick-looking gyration a split second after impact that let the CFO know that the ammunition was still in the process of doing horrible things.

63 took the bulky gun that the rounds required from his employer and set it aside on a waiting table before joining Charles to examine the damage done. From the puncture, there leaked a small quantity of impact gel. Peeling aside the layers of protective gear, the CFO heard 63 let out a soft noise he wasn't sure to interpret as satisfaction or disgust. Maybe a little of both. The dummy simply looked_ wrong_, with its middle, where Charles had shot it, bloated and distorted where the round had exploded within.

"Interesting. I'll take its use under consideration. I'll want additional testing before approval." As Ofdensen turned, 63 walking with him as a pair of Klokateers came in unobtrusively to put things back in order again. "Is 99 available?"

"Yes, sir. She's been waiting for you since she heard of your return. There's been a room set aside for your discussion. Would you care to speak to her in private or shall I accompany you?"

"I'll handle this myself, thank you. I've reviewed the files you've prepared for me, and if you're needed, I'll alert you."

63 acknowledged Dethklok's manager with a bob of his head before moving away to return to the Research and Development wing. There were other projects that required his attention, so the dismissal was hardly an insult.

If 99 had been expecting Charles, it clearly wasn't at the moment he'd stepped into the room. The Klockateers under employ of Dethklok were expected to wear their hoods pretty much at all times. When the CFO came in, he found the tiny, wiry woman bare-headed. At the sound of the door opening however, she started and immediately swept her usual headgear back on. It wasn't as if her appearance was any great revelation to Ofdensen - the files he had on his employees were exhaustive and hers was especially so considering recent developments. Honestly, he was half tempted to have her go without the imposing clothing because she was a perfect example of 'the weapon you least expect being the most effective.' All five feet and two inches of the woman was filled with, as 63 had put it, 'spicy, kung-fu action.' So, when she'd lost her arms in the line of duty, it was a tragic and possibly career-ending occasion. It was at about this time, however, that 63 was putting his knowledges of engineering and human anatomy to good use, and 99 was open to any options that might keep her functioning at something that was close to full capacity.

"How are the arms doing?"

"Personally, I'd say 63's outdone himself, sir, but why don't you tell me?"

She displayed the prosthetic appendages with a fluidity that belied their mechanical nature. 63 had not applied any skin to the new arms he'd created, saying that there were combat applications he wished to explore that would make such a thing impractical. As such, the arms and fingers all had a very interested paneled, jointed look. It was a bit like a cybernetic version of something out of an anatomy text book with the exception of a small, artistic conceit etched into the appendages' sides. Seeming to follow his gaze, 99 smirked a little.

"You know 63 - he just can't help himself."

Up and down the arms were stylized brambles, and a few sharp-edge roses, etched into the metal and looking like something that was ready to make an intaglio print.

Charles nodded and turned his attention to her hands. She exposed her palms and the undersides of her fingers to him, revealing they'd had rubber grips applied to them, beneath which 63 had informed the bespectacled one he'd placed pressure receptors.

"We have some concerns about sensory deprivation," he said, "that I'm sure 63 has made you aware of. You're on, ah, a series of drugs that are helping to cope with that, are you?"

"That's correct," 99 confirmed. "So far it's been...peculiar, but I'm becoming more adept at the use of my new arms. The pressure receptors are helpful, but it's not like having my actual arms. It never will be. I'm following a recovery program that's been plotted out for me which includes the weaning of the chemical aspect when the time is right. We'll see how things go and with any luck I'll be back in my Masters' employ at full capacity."

"Excellent. Keep me updated."

Others might look at the visit as brusque and truncated, but at any given time, Charles had dozens of projects up in the air, all of them demanding his attention. Among these was one he was going to address in the medical facilities Mordhaus had designated for use by the band.

It was not something he'd been looking forward to. Not only was the band notoriously whiny when it came to getting ill, the nature of their malady was unpleasant in the extreme.

"Now, let me get this straight. After the troll--"

"Mustakrakish," a high, Norwegian-accented voice chimed.

"...Right. After Mustakrakish..._exploded_ from being impaled on a radio broadcasting tower, you decided that the best thing to do was to _eat_ his charred remains," said a voice that Ofdensen immediately recognized as Dethklok's long-suffering doctor.

"Wells, you knows...is real metals things to do, ja?" explained a voice Charles confirmed as being Skwisgaar as he opened the door and stepped discreetly into the examination room. "Kills a guys and then be eatings him."

"Yeah, an' Nate'n just got his barbeque sauce deal, right? So, we decided, ''ey! Why not try it out!' y'know?" Pickles continued.

The 'why not' was evident upon looking at the gathering of musicians. Every one of them was cradling their stomach or hunched over in some fashion, all of them paler than was usual.

"Buts ever since we comes homes, we haves the bad case of the stomach throw-ups," the world's fastest guitarist declared.

"And, uh, I dunno about you guysch," Murderface said with downturned eyes, "but I've had a few schituationsch where I've been, uh, dangerouschly closche to schitting my pants."

"I know!" Nathan growled. "I mean, it's uh...like...you're in the bathroom and...y'know, uh...you gotta set yourself up? Cuz you're not, uh, sure about...you know...which end? And if...you don't, uh, you know, don't guess right..."

The vocalist allowed that mental image to seep into the minds of all assembled.

"Dood," Pickles concurred. "I dunno aboot all of you guys, but my toilet ain't gonna be the same ag'in after this."

"You all have food poisoning," their doctor declared in an exasperated tone. "Probably from eating improperly cooked troll meat." He made a face as if he couldn't believe he'd actually just said those words. Noticing Charles, he gave a slight shake of his head. "Just make sure they get plenty of fluids while they ride this out. _Idiots_."

"Noted. So, I take it you're all still suffering from, ah, food poisoning, then? I just wanted to drop by and remind you all of the Employee Evaluation Conference Conference and Raffle that's coming up. I'll need you to be getting some questions prepared for the Klokateers and I'm getting a motivational speaker lined up. Our AV team, ah, also need to be getting some footage for an workplace awareness video. They've already begun preparing the music video for the song you just recorded."

Charles' reminder did not go over well, as he was met with a unanimously perturbed set of faces from the band. This was the typical response from Dethklok when he asked them to do _anything_.

"Could you meybe wait until after we're spewin' crud from every body hole to lay all this stuff on us?" Pickles grumbled. The rest of the band was about to chime in with their agreement, but the drummer made a gagging noise that was recognizable as a precursor to the contents of his stomach making a daring bid for freedom.

"I'll take it under advisory," Charles said, making a quick retreat to the door. The rest of Dethklok began to play an involuntary game of 'monkey see, monkey do.' "Good day."

He closed the door behind him, hearing the urgent (and evidently unheeded) requests of the band's doctor to direct the result of their bodily functions into the appropriate receptacles.

Adding a mental check to the list he was keeping, Charles found himself returning to his office and letting his gaze fall upon a file sitting on his desk. He'd been so busy dealing with everything else that constituted the aftermath of the band's latest trip to Finland that he hadn't had time to give it even a cursory glance. If it had been delivered to him in any other way, he'd probably just shrug it off and not given it a second thought. The bizarre if not compelling manner in which it had reached him, however, gave it a certain gravity.

He'd set aside the time to take care of it, and Charles Foster Ofdensen tended not to procrastinate.

Glancing at the number on the business card the woman who identified herself as Angela Ender had given him, he prepared to undergo a rather drastic shift in thought process and sat down behind his desk.

* * *

"By Freyr's unbridled libido, who are all these people?"

Angela made her inquiry, still shaking a bit of sleep from her head as she emerged from the spare room in her office. Seated in her lobby were about a dozen men and women, some calm while others were being restrained by friends or family members. A few garbling away in glossolalia, while others foamed at the mouth or else had eerily glowing eyes.

Lyle leaned in, clearing his throat and chilling the air around his employer.

"Group exorcism discount. First Friday of the month, madam."

"Oh! Right, then everybody! If you've filled out the proper paperwork, go ahead and queue up at the door to my left! For those of you who haven't, please be as thorough as possible. Keep in mind that I do not take checks, but I will happily accept cash, credit cards of all types or the blood of your first born. I humbly request that you not incur the wrath of my collections agency - if you do, none of us is going to be happy. You've no idea how cranky a recently awoken horde of goblins is. I'd also like to remind you if any one of you goes 'Linda Blair projectile pea soup' on me, my office's cleaning bill will be added to your account."

As the group began to get to their feet, either of their own volition or with help from those who had brought them there, Angela heard the office phone begin to ring. Lyle did what any decent secretary would do and answered, the paranormal investigator hearing him have a murmured conversation before turning his ghostly gaze to Angela.

"I know the timing is hardly ideal," he said apologetically, "but it seems that Mr. Ofdensen is on the phone, madam."


	6. For Your Consideration part 2

Disclaimer: Anything Metalocalypse-related belongs to Small and Blacha. Angela & 63 belong to me.

Chapter 2: For Your Consideration

Part 2

_In which an invitation to the parlor of a spider is extended, an interview is conducted and the merit of particular firearms during a zombie uprising is discussed_

"Any past felonies?"

"Nothing I've ever been caught for."

"Drug use?"

"Only professionally."

"Any emergency contacts?"

"Well, I have a ghost back at my office, but I'm not sure how much good he'd be in an emergency situation."

Charles favored the woman sitting across his desk with a raised eyebrow.

"Last week you saw a _lake troll_ rise up from its watery bed to eat a town and have a Finnish faerie for dessert. Are you honestly going to get skeptical about a ghost _now_?"

"Point taken. If I may, how exactly did you get into this line of work? I imagine it, ah, isn't something one simply falls into."

"You'd be surprised."

"Does it have anything to do with that, uh, eye of yours?"

"That? Not at all. I don't suppose you've ever dealt with dwarf hamsters? They're like tiny Satans."

The CFO tilted his chin down slightly, looking at Angela over the frames of his glasses. "Mm_hm_. Your business card identifies you as a witch?"

Pursing her lips, the woman's eye traced the ceiling before coming back to meet his gaze. "Crude definition. Not precise," she admitted, "but as close as I can come. I don't know that there's a word - in English anyway - that quite defines it. My _modus operandi_ is...eclectic. As far as gods and monsters are concerned, I suppose you could consider me something of a freelancer. I don't let myself get tied down to one practice or another in my investigations. If there's a way to get done what I need to get done, I won't hesitate to use it." She shrugged. "I read a lot of mythology growing up. It opened doors. All the same, I try to stick to conventional methods of getting things done whenever possible. It helps in conserving time and resources."

He nodded slowly, seeming to observe her carefully for a heartbeat before his eyes flicked back down to the paper he was scribbling on to make a few more notes. Angela found that Ofdensen was taking all of this remarkably well. He'd accepted the supernatural goings on both witnessed first hand and brought up in her own research with what was truly admirable speed. It spoke volumes about his own adaptability and fed little bits to the spark of curiosity and suspicion she had about him. Either that or he was doing a really bang-up job of hiding his disbelief and was preparing to dispatch her in some unspeakable manner. This seemed highly unlikely, though. If he'd meant to kill her, considering the resources at his disposal, he could have done so in a much quicker, quieter, and more efficient manner. He didn't strike her as a man who would waste time, money and energy on getting her out here just to kill her himself. He had all of the information she'd gathered up until that point and knew her own personal feelings on the matter. She'd really only be here if he had some further interest in her potential contributions. Perhaps he'd want her dead at some later date, but for the moment, she was fairly sure she'd leave this encounter without shuffling off the mortal coil.

If she was wrong, there was no sense in worrying about it, anyway - there wouldn't be much she could do. _So long! Thanks for playing!_

She was in his office, and it was certainly a well-appointed space. He gave himself plenty of room to work. The place encompassed not only an expansive and expensive-looking desk, but also a set of opulently cushioned chairs set before a sizable fireplace in which crackled a merry flame. There was even attention to detail in that. Cedar was being burned, which filled the room with a pungent but far from unpleasant smell. A number of tasteful paintings were hung on the wall nearby a display case which held a number of antique firearms and bladed weapons one could not_ help_ but notice. The man was either a hunter or had quite an appreciation for the rustic as not only did an elk head mounted above the fireplace fix her back with its blank, glass-eyed gaze, but the enormous chandelier which hung from the vaulted ceiling was composed entirely of antlers. Perhaps most impressive, though was the panorama view of a mountain range behind the CFO. It would have been quite beautiful if not for the fact that the enormous windows which provided said view were half-paned with a mottled, sanguine colored glass. The lighting, too, seemed quite deliberate as it offered no hiding place or easily reached, friendly shadow.

Having the meeting here served two purposes. The first was to establish a certain level of gravity with her. _Yes, I am inviting you into my office to have a serious discussion with you about your possible future employment. I am not brushing you off and am showing you a level of trust and commitment by taking you in like this._ The second was to state, quite simply by way of his surroundings and decor, _I am a predator, and_ you _are in my parlor._

The questions he asked didn't even really seem to be what was important about all of this. He was watching her in such a way as to suggest _what_ she was saying was not nearly so important as _how_ she was saying it; what she _wasn't_ saying. Not long into the interview it was clear that he was trying to read her just as she was him, and that they were both fully aware of the whole situation. But that wasn't a problem - it was just more to take into consideration.

"Our goal is, in light of recent and past happenings, to determine the nature of the band's paranormal aspect and, uh, how it might be dealt with to help rein in these episodes. What is it you'll be needing to conduct your investigation?" he queried, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands together.

"A full medical work up would be helpful," she said. "And family histories, if I could. I want to know if any of their ancestors experienced similar supernatural phenomena or caused any to occur themselves. I know this can be difficult to determine, but anything is helpful. Occupations, medical oddities, old family stories - none of it hurts to know. Anything unusual that's happened to them that wasn't included in my reports - things that the public wouldn't be made aware of. And observation of them would be invaluable. I understand this is a not inconsiderable breach of privacy and that there are things I may have to do without in light of certain laws and practices, but the more leeway I'm allowed, the better I'll be able to serve you. Ultimately, its yours and their decision." She gave him a little nod. "I'm sure I've been vetted and scrutinized by your own sources, as it were."

"You can appreciate my taking care with whom I allow such intimate access to the band."

_So, that's a big, fat 'yes.'_ "Of course. They're an astronomically valuable investment. May I be so bold as to ask when intelligence on them relating to my requests will begin to be gathered?"

"I act as power of attorney for the band, so there's information I may release to you right away. As to some of the more, ah, personal pieces you may need, direct contact with them will be required. That means introductions and explanations." The last word was said after a pause and punctuated with a thinly veiled exasperation. "I hope you understand that that may be...a bit of a trial. I ask that you exercise a measure of, ah, patience with them."

"Consider my loins girded."

He cleared his throat and gave her a sidelong look. "Indeed. I have the paperwork I'll need you to review and sign before things can get underway, but, uh, once that's done we can get to business."

She bobbed her head before meeting his eyes more fully. She was a moment away from offering a sheepish smile and an, 'oh, golly' demureness, but remembered where she was and to whom she was speaking. "May I make a small request once things are in order? I recognize my methods might be considered unorthodox, but forgive me for craving a bit more of your indulgence."

* * *

"So, what do we know about her?"

"Less than I'd like, but she's far from the most difficult case I've ever worked on."

Charles gave an acknowledging tilt of his head, eyes flicking to the data as it flashed across the screen. 63 glanced at his superior before clearing his throat.

"She was born in Portland, Oregon and grew up there. Her parents both died in an automobile collision when she was thirteen. She went to live with her aunt and uncle on her father's side and seemed to do well with them. Good grades throughout junior high and high school along with some extracurricular activities. Studied folklore, mythology and religion at the University of Washington and received a bachelor's degree. From there it looks like she did a considerable amount of traveling, the bulk of it concentrated in Europe and Asia funded through various grants before returning to the states. Most of what she did there went undocumented, was documented and has since been destroyed, or at least is in a format which I couldn't get my hands on. She contributed to a few text books and spoke at a handful of lectures before starting her practice. Business has been good enough where she hasn't had to do anything else to support herself. These are the highlights, of course," 63 said with a shrug. "If you'd care for something more detailed, I have the files available for your perusal, including any pieces of work she's published."

Charles gave a nod of approval, still scanning the data available on the monitor. 63's version of 'less than I'd like' was comparable to most people's idea of a thoroughly-researched subject. The CFO appreciated this. "Thank you - I'll be sure to give it a look."

In the mean time, he needed to have a word with accounting concerning the embezzling he'd been made aware of recently. Evidently daddy would be taking his belt off in very short order.

* * *

"Mead?"

"I brought some of my own, but I figured you'd probably want to take something from your personal stores. I know it's not everyone's drink, but I use it to seal all of my business transactions."

Charles eyed the honey-wine Angela had produced from her bag before looking at the woman again.

"You don't have to get completely smashed or anything - just a sip by both of us from the same glass. Like I said - eclectic _modus operandi_."

Angela was favored with a exploratory look on the part of the CFO. He wasn't exactly brazen about it, but he made no attempt to be overtly discreet, either. She felt through every fiber of her, right down to the bone, his methodical investigation for any line of treachery.

Just as it would have been remarkably unlikely that he would summon her to Mordhaus just to kill her, it seemed equally unlikely that she would have gone through so much trouble to feed him poison. Also, were she to do that, she'd be dead before leaving the premises. If her files and her background gave any indication, she just was not that foolish. If she meant to carry out some kind of bizarre suicide mission for whatever reason, she could have done so in other, far less complicated ways.

"I'm sure what you've brought will be sufficient," he said finally, moving to extract a single brandy snifter from his desk drawer. This clearly surprised the woman, her eyebrows shooting up momentarily before she mastered herself and went about the business of uncorking the bottle.

She was just pouring a small quantity into the glassware the CFO produced when a hooded figure entered the office, a file folder in one black gloved hand. As he set the file in front of her for perusal, Angela lifted the libation in salute.

"To demons, deities, prophets and profit," she said before taking a sip.

"I'll drink to that," the bespectacled man said, and did so.

* * *

"I'm telling you, maschine gunsch aren't gonna do that much!"

"What the Hell are you tahlkin' aboot!? You shoot a guy fulla holes, he ain't gettin' up again!"

"Picklesch, what you fail to underschtand here is that the only thing that'sch going to do any good against a zombie is a head schot. If you've got yourschelf into a poschition where there are a bunch of the undead coming at you, maybe one in a million of those bulletsch are going to actually get a headschot. The othersch are just a waste of ammo. Otherwische, you're dealing with a bunch of zombies full of spent ammunischtion and a weapon that'sch uschless."

It was always fascinating to go into battle tactics with Murderface. It was an area in which he could speak with surprising eloquence and not be completely full of shit. The boys were congregated in their hot tub, each listening with rapt attention to the conversation in progress between the bassist and drummer. When zombies and firearms crossed paths, a masterpiece couldn't be long in coming, as far as they were concerned. It occurred to Nathan that there were too few songs concerning the undead in the band's repertoire, and it might do him well to try and amend that.

"Now, a schotgun, if you're closche enough and have the accuraschy is great becausche it takesch a zombie head clean off. And even if it doeschn't, it'sch got schtopping power."

"Definitely something to have in your arsenal. As far as a blunt instrument goes, you really can't beat a crow bar. They're relatively light weight, easy to handle, and if you can get a zombie in the eye socket with the curved end, you can just yank their head right off. Nothing quite like zombie skull violation."

Five sets of eyes turned toward the entrance of the Mordhaus' rec room. The musicians spied their manager regarding the woman who'd just agreed with Murderface with a look which said, 'For the love of emGod/em, don't encourage them.' Clearing his throat and regaining a bit of composure, he gave the quintet a nod. "Gentleman, I'd like to introduce you to Angela Ender. In light of recent events, I've come to the conclusion that it would be wise to--"

"Oh, hey! I knows her!" Toki said excitedly. "She's is the nakeds lady froms the Finland's Guitars Worlds!"

The other musicians, whose eyes had begun to glaze over, suddenly became a great deal more interested. Arching an eyebrow, the CFO turned to the one-eyed woman, who was rubbing one temple and looking exasperated.

"Gods damnit, it _would_ have gotten to you, wouldn't it?"


End file.
